Part 65 (1/2)
”Yeah. Just... yeah. Don't worry about it.”
”You sure...?”
”Not gonna say a f.u.c.king thing, all right? We're good.”
”Thank you, man.” Ernie exhaled, and chugged antacid. Ernie exhaled, and chugged antacid. ”Stay safe, buddy. We got your back.” ”Stay safe, buddy. We got your back.”
Eagle scooped up and stowed the pizza boxes, pocketed his gun and hopped on his bike as two more remote-controlled workers swept in to sc.r.a.pe up the mess.
Working together, making the world a better place.
VII.
The Dungeon Master had just burnt his tongue on the microwaved ricotta in his calzoneat least a three-hit-point woundwhen the Love Line rang.
He washed the glutinous lava down with a splash of root beer, checked his hair, and let the phone ring.
For allegedly living humans, the science division sure seemed to enjoy chewing on human a.s.ses. When they couldn't b.i.t.c.h about his kill ratio, they whined that his tactics were overkill; when his meat puppets weren't lagging and bugging out like an NT server, they were dangerous rabid dogs.
The Love Line blinked faster. His pager trembled and jittered off the edge of the desk into an empty pizza box.
He wondered which of the Brain Trust would be dining on his haunches today. Of the three-headed nerd colossus that ran New San Francisco, he got the least friction from the Livermore geeks. Nasty little crypto-fascist elves, but they made the best toys, and b.i.t.c.hed the least about his tactics.
His tongue throbbed and told him everything tasted like sandpaper. Perfect. He might as well throw the rest of the calzone back in the fridge.
Well, he thought, killing his root beer and reaching for another, somebody in the world probably has even worse problems somebody in the world probably has even worse problems.
He hit the Accept b.u.t.ton.
f.u.c.k my eyes, he thought.
Poison Lady.
Sherman sat up in his chair and brushed his oily hair back out of his eyes. ”Dr. Childers, you're looking lovely today.”
Meredith Childers' gray-green face tightened on the monitor. She wasn't just the chief researcher on the City's medical research Brain Trust. She was also their star guinea pig. It was easy to see why the other scientists called her The Hippie. ”Sherman... Laliot.i.tis, is it?” ”Sherman... Laliot.i.tis, is it?”
”Round these parts, they call me the Dun”
”This is not a game, Sherman. You were briefed by your superior about today's primary objective?”
”To secure the borders of Fortress Frisco against hostile invaders, ma'am. And phase one was a big win.”
”Don't f.u.c.k around with me. You know what we're doing here. What needs doing.”
Sherman looked around the control room. The Raiders' POV monitors showed the cleanup crews carting off the last of the bodies. ”I, uh... I am sorry if you're unhappy with my performance, but... you know, capping enemies in the heat of battle isn't like cutting the heads off guinea pigs in the lab”
I'll bet the cultists would've done it, he thought. You could've paid them in lentils and Bentleys.
The order had come down last night to target all the squatters on the peninsula in a one-day blitz, using all meat-puppet crews. Every squad operator was on duty today or tonight. The machinists pulled double-s.h.i.+fts refitting a.s.sault teams and converting run-down workers into walking bombs.
All the targets were armed; most were subhuman freaks, but none of them was an imminent threat to the city. Most of the Green Zone was still half-empty, but they were expanding it again, and the whitecoats always needed more cold bodies to play with.
”I'm just,” he finally said, ”trying to do my job, ma'am.”
”If you're as good as advertised, you should be able to control your team. Do you verbally monitor all of them at once?”
”That'd be impossible. I'm all over them in real-time for the real precise wetwork, but they're all running a bunch of apps, most of which I wrote myself.”
”You've changed their programming for today, though, correct?”
”Well, sure...”
”No more headshots. You will be docked for each non-viable body”
”Docked?” Sherman sputtered. ”How much?”
”How much is a human life worth on the current market? Harden the f.u.c.k up and do your job, Sherman.”
”Yes, ma'am.”
”You'll have no excuses for me next time?”
”No, ma'am.”
”You're not the only warm body in San Francisco who's good at videogames, Mr. Laliot.i.tis. But if you're not the best in town from here on out-or if I hear of any more leaks in your operation-the machinists will help us discover a whole new world of uses for you. Am I clear?”
”Um, yes, ma'am.” Voice choked. His catheter popped out. Cold p.i.s.s streamed down his leg.
The line went dead. Motherf.u.c.ker! Motherf.u.c.ker!
Sherman got an aluminum baseball bat and strode out into the hall, away from the mainframe made from 900 chained PS3s and the banks of refrigerated processors running every zombie in the city.
His eyes alit on the vending machine in the hall, but it was the only one in the whole building that worked.
A janitor pushed a floor waxer in loopy circles in front of the elevators.
He didn't flinch or look up as Sherman ran up on him and smashed his face in.
The janitor wore a cheap motorcycle helmet with an enormous smiley face sticker on the visor. It took four whacks to crack the helmet, but another twenty to kill the f.u.c.king thing.
It never raised a hand to block the blows with its nylon idiot mittens. Just kept stumbling back and back as he pummeled it again and again, driving it into the wall and making doork.n.o.bs rattle halfway down the hall.